


'Tis the Season!

by havetardiswilltimetravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 25 Days of Fic, 25 Days of Fic-mas, Bad Puns, Ballet, Childhood Memories, Christmas, Christmas Cards, Christmas Music, Christmas Presents, Corny Over-Acting, Crime Scenes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holmes Brothers, Hot Chocolate, Kidlock, M/M, The Nutcracker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetardiswilltimetravel/pseuds/havetardiswilltimetravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Johnlock Christmas ficlets!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

The scarf was a blue…no, maybe a grey…dark though…cobalt charcoal blue grey…was there such a thing? It didn’t matter how he categorized it - the colour reminded him of John’s eyes. It was perfect. 

67 pounds. Bought and wrapped.

…except…a small nutcracker, no taller than the length of his hand. Small but detailed. There was a glint in his eye which was idiotic because toys weren’t sentient and were ‘its’ not 'hims’. But John loved that ballet, and he couldn’t say he disagreed…it was perfect.

24 pounds. Bought and wrapped.

…except…tickets to the nutcracker at the London Coliseum! Opening night wouldn’t be until February, but he was sure having the tickets in hand counted. Close to the stage, in the center of the venue…it was perfect.

158 pounds. Bought and wrapped.

…except…oh! A jumper! That jumper. Right there. Did society deem it ok to give someone a jumper on Christmas without it featuring ugly reindeer or garish colours? Irrelevant. This one was gorgeous. A deep burgundy with cabling down the front and a shawl collar, soft with a decent weight…John needed this. And he would never get it for himself. It was perfect.

92 pounds. Bought and wrapped.

…except…baths! John liked baths. Loved them, in fact. Running around London didn’t allow them much relaxation, and he knew his blogger was fond of sitting in the tub for ages, and using…what had he called them? Essential oils! Yes! Those right there. And the mustache-shaped bar of soap…well, he couldn’t not get one after that atrocity John had grown last year. It was perfect.

30 pounds. Bought and wrapped.

…except…

…except none of these were perfect…

Sherlock stared at the pile of presents sitting on his bed, brow furrowed in dismay. This had seemed like such a good idea at the start, but now the mess of wrapping paper, tissue paper, and cheer was suffocating…none of it was perfect…there wasn’t a single gift good enough.

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration and guilt. He had set out to buy one perfect present and had ended up with ten decidedly imperfect ones. Every time he’d bought something, he’d second-guessed himself not a minute later.

John wouldn’t want another jumper. John had a scarf, perfectly serviceable. What kind of a present was oil? Did they ever even eat shelled nuts in the flat?

Sherlock knew John would appreciate anything he got him…except perhaps another head in the fridge. No, John wasn’t picky, but that didn’t matter. Appreciation was one thing. But this gift..this entire Christmas…it was their first as a couple, and it had to be perfect.

He sighed. He’d solved serial murders, locked door mysteries, anything and most everything the Yard could throw at him. So why couldn’t he deduce what to get for the person that he knew the best and cared for the most?

A creak on the stairs signaled John’s arrival, and he shook his head, filing the thought away for later and focusing on the puzzle at hand: how to hide all ten presents away without John noticing.

Ah! He’d pile them in the freezer and tell John there was a volatile experiment inside…that should buy him a bit of time…

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompts for this challenge are from hudders-and-hiddles and can be found here: http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas
> 
> And this chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134412716444/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-1


	2. Hot Cocoa

Sherlock blinked, and his mind palace melded back into 221b. A cursory glance around told him it was afternoon and that John, it seemed, was no longer in his chair reading the morning paper, but in the kitchen. Hours then, since he’d sat down. Taking his steepled hands from his lips, he rose from his chair and made his way over, pausing slightly as John dropped a handful of small marshmallows into a steaming mug of hot cocoa. He spoke before John could do the same for the mug obviously meant for him.

“You’re only supposed to put three in…” his voice rumbled softly through the words.

John looked over his shoulder, a surprised smile appearing on his face as he saw the man up and near, not having expected him to stir from his mind palace until John had nudged him from it. “Oh?” he asked, turning around completely and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes…” Sherlock matched his smile and nodded towards the mugs. “It’s how Mycroft always made us hot cocoa. As boys.”

The surprise on John’s face grew, and Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“Yes, for years…Christmas was always a big affair, overwhelming,” he continued, leaning against the counter. “There would always be a party Christmas Eve, and I would slip away to the garden where it was quiet. Mycroft would find me, and he’d always come with two mugs of cocoa, three marshmallows with extra cream, the perfect temperature. Always because it was cold out, you see,” Sherlock smiled again, always having seen past the excuse, but this time it was slightly sad. “…a hot drink because it was cold. He knew I was too stubborn to come back inside, and he didn’t want me getting sick. Eventually it was just a ritual we followed. And he’d stay. With me.”

John’s brow furrowed, and his head tilted in question. “That doesn’t sound like the relationship I’ve seen…”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Things change. People change. Priorities change…”

John eyes tracked elsewhere, knowing the last bit wasn’t true. He would never voice it, his thoughts wouldn’t go over well with either Holmes brother, but while he was sure many things had changed somewhere in between childhood Christmases and then, he was equally sure that Mycroft’s priorities had not. The government official now chose to show it with Big Brother’s surveillance and a blatant disregard for privacy instead of big brother’s hot cocoa and quality time spent together, but it was there nonetheless.

John glanced back up to find Sherlock watching him, and he gave him a reassuring half smile. Turning back to their mugs, he dropped one, two, three marshmallows into Sherlock’s hot cocoa…and put in a little extra cream, at that…

The small smile he received when he handed Sherlock the full mug warmed him more than his drink ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134424683889/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-2


	3. Winter Wonderland

The world was blanketed with white. The trees were frosted, the air crisp, and everything seemed to shimmer slightly. Someone poetic might have called the scene magical, beautiful, a winter wonderland.

The blood splatter on the snow, however, rather ruined its effect. That and the body lying next to it in its own patch of red.  

“A murder on the first snow of the season,” Lestrade sighed, stopping next to John and surveying the scene with a grim and slightly disappointed expression.

John smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, a polite murderer would have waited until the grey slush set in.”

Lestrade scowled half-heartedly. “You know what I mean,” he grumbled.

They watched Sherlock move about the scene with all the flourish that he usually employed. His long coat ghosted over the snow as he spun to take in his immediate surroundings, and several seconds later, the bottom hem settled down in the fine white powder as he crouched to get a better look at the body.

“Do you think the murderer knew?” Lestrade asked after a beat, looking over at John. “That it was going to snow?”

“Of course he knew,” Sherlock said dismissively, looking intently at the victim’s finger nails.

Lestrade sighed after a moment, when no more information came forward. “How do you know?”

“He was a meteorologist,” Sherlock answered, taking his magnifier out and scrutinizing the entry wound.

“A weather man?” Lestrade asked, sounding dubious.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, standing and dusting himself off. “Him too,” he nodded at their victim.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Lestrade pointed out, eyebrow raised.

“He just got the job,” Sherlock answered, glancing up. “A new suit. Hair freshly cut. Everything impeccable. Except for his shoes.” he crouched, pointing at the spots in question. “They’re worn. Extremely so. They wouldn’t have shown on screen so they wouldn’t have necessarily needed the replacement, but someone with money would have completed the ensemble. So he didn’t have the money to spend on new shoes, but he made accommodation for a well-made suit. That necessitates a reason: he had a new job.”

“None of which means he was a weather man,” John pointed out.

“His clothes say it all,” Sherlock replied, slightly exasperated. He stood and moved aside, gesturing. “Look at his suit. Really look. It’s quality, but it’s grey, plain, nothing special. Does ‘nothing special’ strike you as the kind of thing a man with little money would splurge on? No, but he would have had to; he’d be unable to wear anything with stripes or checks to his job due to their tendency to shift and ripple on television screens. The Moiré pattern at work. And his tie.” He switched his attention to the tailored accessory.

“It’s red for the season - not uncommon. But it would have been exceedingly easy to find a tie containing both red and green, and easier still to find it on sale, which would have appealed to him. He couldn’t, however, because the studio green screen behind him would have picked up the colour and half of his tie would have disappeared.”

“Then there’s the fact that he was killed in the  _very_  early morning,” Sherlock went on, pausing to glance at John for specifics.

“I’d estimate between 2:30 and 4 am,” the doctor supplied.

Sherlock nodded. “Meteorologists keep varied hours, but each forecast is put together 2-3 hours in advance of the show’s broadcast,” he continued. “It’s likely he was going to work to get ready for the 6 am news. Cutting through Regent’s Park probably shaved some time off of his commute.”

It was only seconds before John broke the ensuing silence.

“Brilliant,” John grinned, shaking his head. Sherlock flashed a smile back his way.

“So who would kill him?” Lestrade asked, impressed.

Sherlock walked back to the body and crouched once more, gesturing to the deceased man’s hands. “His finger nails are manicured, well taken care of - you would expect so with a profession in the media - but they’re chewed to the quick. Obviously he had something to be nervous about. The broadcast? Perhaps. First day on a new job. But he’s not new to the industry - there’s no reason it would cause him that much stress. A person, then. One he was acquainted with.  He knew this was coming.”

He stood once more. “Someone with a score to settle. Someone who knew when he would be leaving to get to work because he himself had always had to leave his home at that time, as well. Someone he’d just replaced.”

“Check into his affairs. A quick check at news stations nearby should yield his name - not showing up for your first day of work will leave an impression.” He moved to stand next to John. “We don’t have his mobile, which means the killer took it, which means he’d been sending our victim threatening texts. Check his work and home computer to see if any came through there. That should be all the evidence you need to book him on suspicion. I’m sure you can handle the rest.”

Lestrade let out a breath. “Alright then. I’ll let you know what we’ve found when we find it.”

Lestrade moved to speak with his team, leaving John and Sherlock to duck under the police tape and head back towards the bustle of early morning London.  

“So what now?” Sherlock asked as they walked, hands sliding into warm pockets. “Back to the flat?”

“What would you rather do?” John prodded, grinning up at him. “Build a snowman?”

“Better that than have you near a laptop.” Sherlock’s deep voice was laced with humour. “God only knows what you’ll title this one.”

“I was thinking…” John paused for effect, looking sidelong at his friend. “ _Snowy with a Chance of Murder._ ”

“Oh God.”

“ _The Snowman Cometh_.” John’s grin grew by the second.

“Stop.” But Sherlock could feel the corner of his mouth starting to lift.

“No wait!  _Snow Way Out!_ ”

Sherlock’s groan could be heard across the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134495928829/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-3


	4. Christmas Cards

Mrs. Hudson took one last look at the myriad of boxes littering her tenants’ flat before mouthing a sympathetic  _‘good luck’_  at John and bidding them both good night. The delicate sound of an ornament breaking and John’s exasperated “Sherlock” followed her down the stairs, and she shook her head fondly.

Some time later, after some tea and telly, she took to bed. She had managed to close her eyes for perhaps a minute before a loud thump sounded from above. She let out a put upon sigh, resolving to sleep despite. She was quite unsure of the exact state she’d find 221b in come morning, but she was certain the tree would be at least slightly singed.

Morning came, as expected, but when she climbed up the stairs with a tray of tea in her hands and her curiosity in tow, the sight that greeted her wasn’t a singed fern. Nor was it a mess of spilled popcorn and broken glass. No, nothing like it…the sight that met Martha Hudson’s eyes was that of a strikingly ordinary tree, save for the skull staring down at her from the top, and Sherlock and John curled up, sound asleep on the sofa.

There was tinsel in Sherlock’s hair and a peaceful look on his face. John’s arm was curled solidly around his waist, and Sherlock’s weight had fallen fully against him, complacent in the embrace. A soft smile spread across Mrs. Hudson’s face, and she looked at them both happily, knowing they must have fallen asleep together late the night before. She had waited for the two of them to stop dancing around each other for so many years - through cases and close calls, deaths and weddings, uncertainty and bravado. For so long and in so many ways Sherlock and John had loved each other quietly…everyone had seen it except for the two that actually mattered…and it seemed that last night it had finally been spoken.

She placed the tea tray down softly and walked closer, taking care not to wake them up. Stopping at the bottom of the sofa, she carefully pulled her phone from her pocket and took a photo. Her gaze moved from the picture back to the two men she’d come to regard as family, and her smile grew, eyes crinkling at the corners.

_This is definitely one for the Christmas card._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134558270729/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-4


	5. Ghost of Christmas Past

Sherlock watched John intently in a last ditch effort to try to deduce what he hadn’t been able to for weeks. Every year he’d been able to figure out what John had gotten him for Christmas. Even on their first Christmas together in that flat - before they’d started going out, before they had gotten married, before they'd ever had any intimate relationship to speak of - he'd figured it out in advance, and though it was a foregone conclusion, every year John had tried to keep it from him. This year, however, he hadn’t a clue what the gift was. And from the smug look John had been giving him all week, he knew full well that Sherlock didn’t know.

He hardly thought it fair, though. Honestly, according to John, it wasn’t  _normally_  fair, if only for the fact that he was…well…himself. But John hadn’t even put a box out this year.

It wasn’t under the tree. It wasn’t anywhere in their room nor in the one upstairs (he’d looked). Under his skull, hidden in the cupboard, between the sofa cushions - he’d searched everywhere.

How was he to deduce a thing if he couldn’t find any of the facts?

“Alright, alright, sit down,” John grinned at him, seeming to have decided to save Sherlock from his squirming. And so he did, on the floor, next to the tree, eyebrow raised.

“You think I don’t know what you got me this year, but I do,” he bluffed, trying to gauge John’s expression.

“Do you now?” John raised an eyebrow back, smug expression not faltering a bit. “Care to clue me in?”

“It would ruin the excitement for you if I told you and confirmed it…” he retorted.

“That’s never stopped you in the past,” John said wryly. “Close your eyes.”

Sherlock sighed, rolling them before he obliged. There was rustling off to his right as John went to fetch the present, and Sherlock sighed again, mentally kicking himself as he recognized the fireplace.

“It could have gone up in smoke, you know,” he remarked as John returned. “I could have burned it.”

“You? Start a fire where a fire’s meant to be started?” He swore he could hear the smirk in John’s voice. “Preposterous.”

He heard John sit across from him, and he tilted his head towards the sound.

“Hands out.”

Sherlock obeyed, and John placed the gift in his hands. Eyes still closed, he ran his fingers around the edges. Small, flat, square. No larger than a slice of bread, he estimated. A bit of heft, medium weight, dense…it hardly rattled…couldn’t be jewelry, but what use would he have for jewelry anyways?

He opened his eyes to stare at the bright red paper, not having the faintest clue what it was. The dancing snowmen on it seemed to taunt him, and he narrowed his eyes, looking up at John, who was looking particularly proud of himself.

“Snowman wrapping paper? Really, John?” He said, feigning disdain. “A bit cliche don’t you think?”

“Oh, come off it, you git,” John laughed. “Just open it.”

A smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips, and he ripped the wrapping paper at the edges before removing the lid. The contents gave him pause and his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I hope you don’t think I’ll be wearing this,” he remarked wryly, taking the leather collar from its box and looking it over.

“It’s not for you,” John retorted, grinning.

Sherlock blinked, looking up, and John’s grin grew. “Mrs Hudson!”

Mrs. Hudson? His mind scrambled for a reason why Mrs Hudson could possibly be vital to their discussion.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Sherlock’s eyes turned to their door. Several seconds later, Mrs Hudson came into view…with a small ginger puppy in her arms - happy, wriggling, nose wet and eyes bright.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. It looked…it looked so much like…

* * *

_“He’s all yours,” his mum said. “If you treat him right.”_

_Sherlock’s face shown with excitement, his eyes lit up with happiness. Gently, though he was thrumming with energy, the 8 year old lifted the tiny Irish Setter puppy from the box it had been hidden in. The pup licked his face enthusiastically, and he couldn’t help but laugh._

_“Man’s best friend.” His dad chuckled, and Sherlock’s ears caught on the last word. “What would you like to name him?”_

* * *

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock blinked back into the present to see John’s face shadowed with concern.

John pressed his lips together nervously, hoping he hadn’t somehow made the wrong decision. They’d been talking about getting a dog for the longest time. They’d discussed whether the flat would be big enough, who would watch the pup if they had to work a case out of town, housebreaking, all of it. John knew that perhaps he should have waited, that he should have brought Sherlock with him to search. And he’d intended to, really, but then he’d gone to the shelter to look around and learn about the adoption process and this little guy…well, he hadn’t been able to get him out of his head, and John had just known Sherlock would love him.

Sherlock held his hands out and Mrs. Hudson transferred the enthusiastic dog into his arms.

“He looks just like…” Sherlock said softly, a smile making itself known.

John smiled back, relieved. “Yeah.”

“He’s perfect.”

John scooted over to sit next to Sherlock and watched as the puppy tried its hardest to wriggle out of Sherlock’s grasp.

“Any idea what you’re going to name him?”

Sherlock considered for a moment…what indeed. Not Redbeard…no, Redbeard was a memory, and while that memory was one he would never let go of, this puppy was a life all his own…his smile grew as a name came to mind.

“Hawkins.”

“As in Jim Hawkins?” John grinned and shook his head. “Of course you’ve read Treasure Island.”

“Oh, I was obsessed with the book as a child,” he said fondly, putting Hawkins on the floor and watching him try to climb into John’s lap without falling over. “I might have driven Mycroft mad. He would never play the parts I wanted him to.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to opt for Billy Bones, then?” John asked with a laugh, helping the pup up onto his lap only to watch him wriggle off once more.

“A bit on the nose don’t you think?” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah. Hawkins suits him better anyhow,” John smiled. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you, John. Happy Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know this might not need to be said, but it’s important. Please never get any animal on a whim. Being a pet owner is serious and requires work and time and love in abundance, not to mention that one pet does not fit all. So many dogs are returned to shelters just after Christmas because people weren’t ready to actually handle a pet. That’s not at all fair to the dogs. In this particular case, I made exception since first and foremost, all parties involved are fictional, and they’d talked so thoroughly about it before hand. John knows Sherlock very well, but in real life, they should have picked out that little guy together. Ok, I now return you to your regular fluff.
> 
> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134634818669/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-5


	6. Naughty or Nice

_Oh, you’d better watch out,_ _You’d better not cry,_ _You’d better not pout,_ _I’m telling you why,_ _Santa Claus is coming to town._

John hummed along with the radio as he brewed his morning tea, head swaying slightly with the tune.

_He’s making a list,_ _Checking it twice,_ _Gonna find out w_ _ho’s naughty or nice,_ _Santa Claus is coming to town._

Familiar arms wrapped around him as the verse ended, and he smiled.

“Naughty or nice, hm?” A deep voice rumbled in his ear. “I wonder, John, which one have you been this year?”

“Morning to you, too,” John chuckled, leaning into the pleasant warmth behind him. “And I would have thought you’d have already known the answer to that question.”

“Oh, I know every single depraved act you’ve done in that bedroom,” Sherlock murmured against his skin.

“You should,” John grinned cheekily. “You were there, and I really would hope that you were paying attention.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, managing to drag multiple octaves out of the one word. John turned as Sherlock stepped back, raising an eyebrow in question. “I’m  _trying_  to be seductive.”

John had to press his lips together to keep from laughing at such a flirtatious word coming from a visibly petulant Sherlock. It was obvious, however, that he had failed to hide his amusement because Sherlock’s pout was getting stronger by the second.

“Ok, sorry, I’m sorry,” John said, forcing his face to sober up. He took a step forward, sliding his hands onto Sherlock’s hips. “You’re quite right,” he murmured, leaning up to press an apologetic kiss to his lips.

“I’ve been very bad this year,” he continued, feeling more than slightly ridiculous but trying to play along. Sherlock hummed deeply in agreement, hands sliding back to John’s hips.

“I really can’t help it though.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck. “I have a very bad influence around me all the time.”

“I don’t know who that could be…” Sherlock said with a sly grin. “You couldn’t possibly be referring to me. I’m on the nice list.”

“Oh, come off it,” John looked up at him, amusement written all over his face.

“No, really, John,” he insisted, his face a picture of innocence.

“Sherlock!” John looked at him like he’s grown a second head, and the mood was lost again.

“Oh come on, John. What could I have possibly done to-”

“You blew up the kitchen in September,” John reminded pointedly.

“Oh yeah…” Sherlock frowned, as if he hadn’t considered that.

“You burned one of my jumpers last May.”

“Well…” Sherlock brow furrowed further.

“You didn’t label the bacteria culture experiment when you put it in the  _non-experiment_  milk. I put that in my  _tea!_ ”

“Let me make it up to you…” he interrupted with a wolffish grin. “All of that - I could make up for it all. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he asked, slowly backing John up against the counter. “Nice enough to get me on the good list?”

John was able to hold back his snort…barely. “Maybe,” he grinned, unable to keep a straight face. “If you tried really really hard.”

“Oh, please let me, John…” he pleaded, like it was all he wanted in the world. John huffed out a laugh at the obvious overacting. “You wouldn’t want me to get coal in my stocking.”

“No,” John said, rolling his eyes. “We wouldn’t want that.” He leaned up for an over-the-top kiss before grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pulling him into the bedroom. “Come on you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know. This chapter is a mess. I am so sorry XD
> 
> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134769534044/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-6


	7. The Nutcracker

It had been his favourite ballet as a child. It still was. Everyone knew The Nutcracker - knew the story, knew the score. But no one had loved it like he had, at least that’s how it had seemed. He’d only ever been twice - both times at the Royal Opera House. His mum had bought the tickets on the rare occasions when their limited resources had been less limited, and they had sat in the balcony, unable to afford anything else. But each time had been amazing. He had sat, his program clutched in his hands, his attention rapt on the stage, the costumes, the story. The memories had never gone. 

He had never realized, however, that Sherlock was in love with it, too.

…

It had been his favourite ballet as a child. It still was. Maybe it was cliche, but he loved everything about the famous ballet. His family had gone every year. He would always insist. Every time, their seats would be in orchestra - close to the stage, close to everything. And once it had started, his eyes would be glued to the stage. It took his breath away - the footwork, the concentration, every swell of the symphony, every single note. Afterwards, he would always insist on stopping by the orchestra pit to watch the musicians pack their instruments up. It was how he’d decided he’d wanted to play one. His first fully played piece on his violin was Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. 

He’d never stopped to think, however, that John might appreciate the ballet, as well.

…

So when tickets had gone on sale and tentative invitations had been voiced, they had gone together. And the stage, the costumes, the dancing, the music, the story - they were all amazing. But in the end, neither was sure if it was the ballet company or the company of each other that made that performance the best they’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than usual, but I think it's one of my favourites. I'm a sucker for fluff.
> 
> This chapter can be found on tumblr here: http://havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com/post/134770039564/25-days-of-fic-mas-day-7


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